


Their Foundations Washed Ashore

by KelpietheThundergod



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s10e19 The Werther Project, Gen, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 18:00:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3819727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And then the trees are there, surrounding.</p><p>It's a call, and dimmed light, and an endless circle. But even in his head, there must be a way back. He will not be locked inside here, not again. He stands still, and he listens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Their Foundations Washed Ashore

**Author's Note:**

> for my dear friends pirrofarfalla and dustydreamsanddirtyscars :)

 

**_their foundations washed ashore_ **

_with the sea shells_

 

_pick them up, for I have seen_

_this long white road is lined by houses_

 

  _and they'll be empty all alone_

 

 

 

 

 

And then the trees are there, surrounding.

It's a call, and dimmed light, and an endless circle. But even in his head, there must be a way back. He will not be locked inside here, not again. He stands still, and he listens. The other one's eyes are clear and knowing. The weapon is sharp, the words are sharper. His own words. The air is cold. This is not a memory, but so many memories are cold. Not because he forgets, it's that he doesn't. He wants to make new memories. Warm memories.

This is a part of who he is, each tree. The monsters in their shadows. But it's just one part. The other one claps him on the shoulder, walks past. Hands, hands. A warm touch, it's always felt like home. No matter where he was. None of that here. There is no life here, only silence. He knows too many of these trees, knows how to whisper prayers in their shadow. Answered only by mocking laughs, of monsters, of himself.

His fingers ache to tear this wall down with brutal force, but he chooses different. He goes through himself. Trees turned into walls, a room the light clicks on/off seven times. But he understands now. No slamming closed. Instead, one step forward, and from one house to the next. A breath, and he has found it again – where his hands are warm.

>

It was deep down, but inside. Oh, it pained so bad. Outside – tall and white and welcoming. There was laughter, there was joy. A roof of wood and shingles, it protected everyone inside. It wanted to protect inside. Walls to shield and doors for quiet. But open, and free to come and go. That's what it's for, a home.

And then taken and corrupted. There was a trap in it, behind the wall. The wall torn down. And what wanted to protect turned into a trap itself. So much time, and the windows stained with pain. Only one left, and so hard trying to forget, and bury home with it. Under so many things, and many more things.

Sad, so sad. But finally set free. And now it can fall, bury. Make place for not empty again.

>

Look at me!

And he does, but does he see? His pulse is rising, he cannot linger. This is an illusion, an illusion. He has to push it away, has to see clear. She says, he's too far gone. So he has to see clear. For both of them. He would never forgive himself. He clambers through the hole in the wall, he crouches in the dust. Ignores the noise, the shouts. Her voice in his ear, her not-voice in his ear. The screws turn, the metal aches and refuses to obey. His blood drips. The house seems to shudder around him, down to its deepest level.

He will not wait for it to crumble, will not wait for its pieces to bump against his feet. This one house will keep standing, the walls strong and the door locked tight and safe. This one house will keep standing. Even if he has to stop the time.


End file.
